Love Bites
by SassyJ
Summary: Marshall Art Mullen knows that his deputy Raylan Givens is going to give him a heart attack one day. He just didn't expect it to be today. Raylan's been shot, and Boyd Crowder is missing. This can't be good.
1. Hurting

Art Mullen truly hates this. Waiting on an update on one of his deputies. Especially when it's Raylan. He knows they've brought Raylan out of surgery, that he's come round once, and that they are settling him into a room. He knows the damage is bad, how bad remains to be seen.

Raylan will recover, they will get him back. It's how long, and how much pain, and just how Boyd Crowder was involved. Because Art knows that as night follows day, Boyd Crowder was involved in this.

And that Boyd was not the one who shot Raylan in the back.

Shotgun, fairly close range, pellets had torn hell out of Raylan's shoulder, broken his shoulder blade. But the who and the how and the why, none of that matters until Art's seen Raylan with his own eyes, seen his deputy awake, even if he was spaced out on painkillers and hurting.

As crazy and uptight and stressed as Deputy US Marshall Raylan Givens makes Art, he loves the boy. Not as a son, but something like an annoying younger brother, not that he would ever admit it to Raylan's face. Raylan's brave, loyal, hard-headed to the extreme, an incredible shot and the source of a whole forest-worth of paperwork which has made Art's life distinctly more difficult but never dull.

A doctor comes over and says a lot of words that Art doesn't really hear. But he nods anyway, and heads towards Raylan's room. No idea what he will find, the slight queasiness in his stomach doing nothing to settle his nerves. He pushes the door open.

They've dimmed the lighting, presumably to help the patient rest. From what Art can see, that's a forlorn hope. Raylan is lying half on his side, half on his back, stack of pillows behind him, supporting his injured left side, there's a line of tiny stitches across his cheek. Dressings on the side of his neck. He's swathed in bandages, his left arm immobilized across his chest, the sheet pulled up covers more bandages supporting his two broken ribs. He looks like he's been run over by a truck.

The hazel eyes are half-open, he's drugged up to the gills, even if Art wanted to there's no way he could question the exhausted man in front of him tonight.

"Ray-Ray." Art says softly, perhaps a little too shell-shocked to realise he's used Raylan's nickname, meaning to leave if Raylan's too exhausted to see anyone.

Something resembling Raylan's normal cock-eyed smile crosses his features. It flickers out at the tug of the stitched cheek wound. "Hey." His voice is croaky, the country twang more evident. His eyes slip closed.

"I'll come back." Art feels uncomfortable with the rush of feeling that's hitting him hard, like a shot of George T on a cold day.

"Stay." It takes Raylan a couple of tries to get that word out, and Art knows he's not going to abandon his deputy.

He pulls up a chair, it's going to be a long night.


	2. Hoping

Boyd Crowder has been in some tight spots in his lifetime. But this particular tight spot is taxing his ingenuity to its limits. And his strength of will.

He truly doesn't know whether he hates or loves Raylan Givens. What he does accept, as much as he really doesn't want to, is that the fate, fortune and future of Boyd Crowder is wholly dependent on Deputy US Marshall Raylan Givens being alive to see it. He rather suspects that Raylan's fate, fortune and future depend on himself being in it too. Yin and Yang and that whole nine yards.

Alive would be good.

Someone he knows screwed up somewhere, and now someone very angry has Boyd Crowder in their clutches. The worst part, Boyd hasn't got a goddamn clue what this is all about.

He talks up a blue streak, in the hopes of simply being able to silver tongue his way out of it. Earns himself some hefty slaps from the three goons that have been sent to acquire him, so he points out that it's hardly sporting to slap him around with his hands tied behind his back. The fist that slams into his jaw drops him like a stone.

He wakes to considerable discomfort. The ropes holding his wrists behind his back seem to have gotten tighter, someone's tied his elbows too, forcing them closer together. It hurts like hell, but then so does the hefty knot of cloth in his mouth, practically dislocating his bruised jaw. Whoever they are, they've tied the cloth tightly behind his head. He's finding it tough to breath with this huge knot in his mouth forcing his tongue down and impeding his airway. Especially as he's been dumped face down on a filthy dusty floor. Even if he could get up, someone's tied his ankles.

Boyd screws his eyes closed, and lays there in the dust wheezing like miner's lung is upon him and he's not long for the world. Not all of it is a fake.

A brief mental inventory tells him that the headache that is starting behind his left eye is either the worst case of neuralgia he's ever experienced, or the migraine from hell. Either way, his brain aches and his face hurts and he really, really wants Raylan to come charging to the rescue in his black Lincoln.

The part that's scaring him to death, is that he knows that's not going to happen.

Raylan and Boyd squaring off to each other. Someone could have dropped a grand piano and they wouldn't have noticed. Raylan obsessing on whatever he thinks Boyd has done now, and Boyd seeking to bring Raylan around to his point of view.

The explosion behind Raylan, dropping him to the ground instantly, the look of shock on his face chased away by agony. The few pellets that missed him slammng into Boyd's upper chest and shoulder. They sting.

All Boyd can do is watch in horror as Raylan crumples to the ground. Something hits him hard from behind, and Boyd follows him down into the dark.

Boyd squirms, trying to ignore the pain in his arms, and legs, his sore face and the mounting pain in his head. Trying to ignore the fear too.

The fear that comes and whispers in his ear that Raylan's dead and gone.

In the end he's all alone and there's no one coming for him. Which Boyd knows is a flat-out lie. Because Raylan will always be coming for him.

Raylan's alive, and Raylan will come for him.

Boyd screws his eyes closed again, and prays with all his sinner's soul that Raylan is going to come and get him. Raylan's alive and he's going to bring the might of the US Marshall Service down on these people.


	3. Aching

Raylan Givens is indisputably alive. Something he rather wishes he wasn't. His head's clearer, his shoulder is miserably painful and he remembers asking Art to stay. It's the stuff that came before that Raylan's having trouble with.

He knows only too well why he was facing off with Boyd. Again. And Boyd sure as hell didn't shoot him. The last thing he remembers before he passed out was Boyd hitting the ground right next to him.

Something is goosing his neck hair again. And this time there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.

Sitting up is beyond him, his shoulder is hamburger and his left arm utterly useless. Although, on the plus side, his fingers all still work. He moves them just to be sure. Ignoring the fierce ache that erupts in his shoulder at even that tiny bit of movement from his left arm. He's got a button to press which gives him the good drugs, but he's keeping those in reserve for awkward visitors.

Now he's just waiting for Art to come back, while his head is clear. He's been trying to piece it all together.

His visit to Boyd was something and nothing. It paid to keep an eye. Only this time Raylan's the one doing the paying. He's hurting like hell, trying to remember what he saw, because he knows that Boyd is deep in trouble.

* * *

Boyd is still lying on the floor in a semi-stupor. He's hungry, thirsty and hurting in too many places to count. His arms have gone numb, his shoulders have gone into spasm from the way he's been tied, and if someone doesn't untie him real soon he's going to throw up the minimal contents of his stomach and probably drown in his own vomit from the tight gag in his mouth.

If ever he was in need of Raylan Givens' finely tuned instincts it would be right now.

Because Boyd still doesn't have a clue what in hell this is all about. If anyone asks him anything it's about a girl. A woman he's never heard of. There's an old man, and Boyd has vague recollections of his daddy doing business with this man.

Boyd senses that he's running out of time, he's going to have to find an answer to what the man wants to know. Or Boyd is not going to be long for this world, and the Marshalls won't have enough left to bury in a brown paper bag.

* * *

Art comes to see Raylan with Vasquez in tow. He really doesn't care what Vasquez and the AUSA want. Raylan is the victim here, only this time Art wants the man to see what his men are really facing. So maybe next time Raylan draws his weapon to defend his own life, Art won't be up to his neck in paperwork.

Vasquez knows that Raylan Givens has been shot. _In the back_. But nothing has quite prepared him for the state the man is in. The deputy is swathed in bandages, dressings cover multiple contusions and he has stitches on his cheek. What strikes Vasquez very forcibly is that somehow the man is holding out on the pain meds so that he has a clear head to give his report and statement.

Art takes Raylan's statement and Vasquez has the good grace and the sense to keep quiet. He's lost in thought.

Raylan remembers a car on the road. He recites the number, gives a description. It's all they have and it's damn slim pickings. He emphatically denies that Boyd Crowder was the shooter.

Art knows that Raylan has reached the limit of his endurance. His words are slightly slurred, the flashes of pain that cross his face are closer together and he's no longer controlling them. Art calls a halt.

To his surprise, it's Vasquez who reaches out and gently presses the button so that Raylan can get his pain meds.

Raylan's eyes close and he slips under with barely a flicker.


	4. Terror

The car belongs to one Ansel Potter. Vague recollections haunt Art, an old case and an evil old man. But Art doubts that Potter shot Raylan. Ansel Potter's 85 years old, walks with a cane and has emphysema which makes him wheeze like a blown pit pony.

Impossible for Potter to sneak up on Raylan like that; but not impossible for Potter to orchestrate this.

Question is, why?

As far as Art can see, this is just Raylan's angel of misfortune putting him in the firing line at the wrong time. The target of this disaster is Boyd Crowder.

Now as tempting as it may be for Art to practically dismiss this as divine retribution, or some such, he knows he is honor bound to figure out what it is that has come down on Boyd Crowder and dig him out of this mess instead of just finding out who shot his deputy.

Art is not a superstitious man, but without Boyd, Raylan might not have a purpose or target for his suspicions. That would not be good. In a bizarre twist of that fickle finger, Art Mullen is actually grateful that Boyd Crowder is in the world. As long as Raylan's sights are trained on Boyd, there is actually less chance of anything going off elsewhere.

There's a knock on his door, Art looks up, weary already from sitting up all night with his injured man, and a thousand other stresses running through his head. Tim Gutterson stands there, file in his hand, and Art can see that Tim is sad and stressed too, as he knows Rachel is, because as irritating, insular and uncommunicative as Raylan can be, the three of them have formed a singular attachment as a team.

Tim waves the file a little. "Turns out Ansel Potter has a grand-daughter. Honey Potter. Married a man called Cabo del Toro. Lives in New Orleans. About six weeks ago, del Toro sits down to dinner with his ever-loving wife only to discover that not only is she having some sort of affair with one Boyd Crowder, she apparently seasons her gumbo with arsenic."

Art scowls. "How is that even possible?" He levels a skeptical stare at Tim. "Boyd Crowder hasn't left Kentucky inside of the last four months."

Tim almost smiles. His lips start to curve up at the corners, and then he remembers Raylan, lying in the pool of his own blood, conscious, in so much pain that he could barely speak, and the shutters slam down. There's an agony in Tim's eyes then. Being first on the scene to a downed colleague is always bad, to a colleague that you've become close to, that you respect and admire, well that's about as bad as it gets.

The memories of his first sight of Raylan at the hospital flash before his eyes, Art squares his shoulders and holds out his hand for the file. They keep going because that's what Raylan would do if he wasn't flat on his back in a hospital bed.

Tim opens it and hands it to his boss. "Boyd Crowder", he taps the picture. The picture definitely isn't Boyd.

"Dewey Crowe." Art's fingers start to clench on the desk edge. To keep himself from exploding across the room and taking out the window… or something else that's glass and smashable.

Dewey Crowe is an idiot. This is not the first time he's bitten off more than he can possibly chew. Only this time Raylan and Boyd are caught up in it, it's all turned deadly.

For once Boyd Crowder is actually a victim. Art really doesn't want to think about the extreme irony of that. Even thinking about the irony would be some kind of betrayal.

"Thing is, Cabo didn't die."

Tim hands over the second file. Art flips it open, and realizes that Dewey's astounding levels of idiocy have got him into a situation that Boyd and Raylan will be lucky to emerge from with their lives. Dewey has obviously rabbited back to where he knows best and brought a shit storm down on all their heads.

Cabo del Toro is one seriously nasty customer.

* * *

Boyd knows the moment the big boss steps into the room. He still doesn't know what this is about. He has the sinking feeling he's going to find out.

The man is huge. At least a hundred pounds heavier than Boyd. A hand the size of a meat plate lifts him from the floor by the rope between his elbows.

Boyd never shows weakness to others. But he yelps in pain at this.

"Boyd Crowder?" Boyd doesn't recognize the face, but he's not likely to forget it in a hurry.

He digs deep into his memory still coming up empty, he feels like hell, but he's got no intention of dying this night. It's not lost on him that the silent prayer he sends up is not to his maker but to Raylan and his colleagues at the Marshall's office.

"This ain't Boyd Crowder." He hears the angry growl, but he's not stupid or naïve enough to believe that this gorilla is going to let him go.

He can hear the stuttering of the man's minions in the background, but keeps his focus on the goon holding him. The one who is going to beat him to a pulp.

"Where's my wife?" The words are soft, the voice robbed of the angry growl almost sounds cultured and in spite of himself Boyd shivers. This is a very angry man capable of channeling his rage. Boyd knows exactly where this giant is going to channel it. Through his fists.

A hand unknots the gag from behind his head, and drags the knot out of his mouth. Boyd works his aching jaw a little as a picture is brought before him. "Since my associates inform me that you are in fact Boyd Crowder, perhaps you would enlighten me as to who this gentleman is?"

Boyd focuses on the picture. Dewey Crowe. Boyd knows that he could deny knowing Dewey, in which case the thug is likely to just shoot him outright as being of no further use. They shot Raylan, and if they can shoot a Deputy US Marshall, they are not going to care about shooting a country boy like himself. If he gives them Dewey's name, he knows he's going to be used as a substitute punching bag until they catch up with Dewey, and then they're gonna shoot Boyd as no further use to them.

So he admits to knowing Dewey, and silently promises himself that if he, Boyd Crowder, gets out of this alive, he's gonna run Dewey Crowe to ground and make his life a living hell.

Boyd knows this is gonna hurt.


	5. Searching

Boyd redefines the interpretation of the word hurt. He thought he knew hurt in all its forms. He's used hurt many times. Both the physical, and the emotional, to pry from his victims the thing he needs the most.

Of course, they were not victims, merely opponents.

This man, this Cabo del Toro, is handing new definitions of hurt to Boyd.

Boyd tries not to underestimate people. That is really bad for business. This man's size might lead one to misinterpret his capabilities.

Del Toro is huge, brutal and probably the most complete sadist that Boyd has ever met.

The ropes between Boyd's wrists and elbows were cut first, Boyd tried very hard not to howl in agony as the pressure on his shoulders was removed instantaneously and his numbed arms flopped to his sides. That pain was nothing to what he was about to experience.

Boyd's dangling from his wrists, from a beam in the ceiling. It's agony. His right wrist has been broken but both wrists are holding the majority of his bodyweight, his toes barely scrape the floor. The blows to his lower back have been almost scientifically applied, with a precision that is terrifying, if he had been able to drag his mind from the terror for long enough.

He knows his kidneys are at the very least bruised. He knows he's gonna be peeing blood for at least a week, and in screaming pain for every second he passes water. As stretched as he is, he knows at least two ribs are broken. The man's thumb has been driven into the broken ends a couple of times, for the pure sadistic pleasure of hearing Boyd scream.

The man's running commentary on the search for Dewey Crowe and the missing wife is accompanied by fresh interrogation techniques. Boyd doesn't even try cataloguing his injuries now. If he survives this, he's going to be a very long time being put back together physically.

He concentrates his efforts on staying alive and praying that Raylan finds him quickly. He has faith.

* * *

Art and the entire office are out there beating the bushes. Looking under manhole covers for Dewey Crowe. And the delectable Mrs del Toro. When Art sees her picture he can quite understand why Dewey, never the sharpest tool in the box, lost his mind over Mrs del Toro.

Though what she could possibly want with him is another matter entirely.

Art Mullen has the entirely uneasy feeling that this is going to end in a mess, and that Dewey is going to need rescuing too. They're all out looking, he's got men coming in from other offices to help. What he can't figure out, is why David Vasquez of the AUSA is helping out too. And this is the hollers. They need Raylan. Whatever he feels about the place of his birth, and the people he grew up around, he understands them, he can talk to them, and they will talk to him. Art might be from Kentucky, but he might as well be from Mars for all the help his heritage gives them.

Art sighs, he really doesn't have time for all this. He has a manhunt to organize, plenty of other work to straighten out, because the life of the office does not come to a halt for Dewey Crowe, or Boyd Crowder or even Raylan Givens.

* * *

Raylan is sitting up, debating with himself if he has the strength to get out of bed and go join the hunt. He's sore, he's a little tired, but the pain is under control; and Boyd needs him. And that's dredging up feelings of care and responsibility that Raylan Givens has no intention of confronting. Ever.

He owes Boyd.

He's having a hard enough time with the Winona feelings. She's been by, the first meeting went so astoundingly well, that the second time she came by Raylan pressed the meds button so hard it nearly stuck. She's mad at him. He knows it. But him getting shot was simply the fickle finger, nothing sinister, just bad luck.

She shouts at him that he cares more about his damn job than he ever did about her, and that he needs to shape up to his responsibility now. She makes him so damn mad that he sits up so fast his head spins. That's when he knows that whatever love there was there has died between them. He cares, so does she, but they are on different emotional wavelengths, and if he wants to do right by his child, they need to maintain a certain distance. And that hurts. He knows though that they may not end up even as friends if he doesn't play it straight.

Sitting up is the first stage. He's already made his first expeditions to the bathroom, so he knows he can manage putting one foot in front of the other. The next stage is getting into the clean clothes that Tim has brought him, getting his credentials and his gun back and getting out there. He might not like the title _hillbilly whisperer_ but if it gets him back on the case and out looking for Boyd, he'll just suck it up.

The doctor does not want to let him go, but Raylan Givens has got by on charm before, and he knows he can reason his way out of this one. It's been three days, and that's three days too long. Boyd might not have much time left.

Art has been getting reports of strangers looking for Dewey Crowe. Asking questions. Firearms have been mentioned, and in a hunting town like Harlan, that's disturbing.

* * *

The swinging machete means nothing good as far as Boyd can see. He knows that either he's about to lose an arm, or this del Toro is going to cut him down. He's going to hit the floor like a ton of bricks. But the machete stops just short of the rope.

Boyd can barely see, his vision is blurring and he's finding it hard to formulate a sentence, and for a man like Boyd who can talk the birds out of the trees this is a real hardship. Especially when talking helps him focus away the pain into its own little compartments.

Then the machete slices through a strand of the rope, and Boyd understands a new kind of sickness. The evil thrill of anticipation of pain. He watches the strands part, and tries to concentrate on the question, only he's so very tired and sore he can't think straight. Another strand parts, and all Boyd can do is watch through bleary eyes the slow unraveling as each rope strand is cut, never quite certain when his weight and gravity will do the rest and slam him face down to the floor.

The fall is almost a relief. The landing not so much. The shock so great that even when the boot slams down on his right arm, breaking the humerus just above the elbow he doesn't scream. Just lies there in a daze, because he's never suffered anything like this even from his violent father and he doesn't know how he's going to survive.


	6. Answers

Dewey Crowe was looking very pleased with himself. In a way that only Dewey Crowe could manage.

Of course it was Raylan who had found him, and uncharacteristically actually waited in the car while Tim had gone in and dragged Dewey and the wife out of the cheap motel room in Corbin.

Now Dewey and Mrs del Toro were in the conference room with Art, Tim, Rachel, Raylan and Vasquez, and Art was having a very hard time trying not to either burst out laughing or leap over the table and beat Dewey to a pulp.

Apparently, the arsenic was not arsenic but sleeping pills, Mrs del Toro wanted out, and with some kind of death wish in her make up had chosen Dewey not only as her exit strategy, but her new partner in life.

Art focused hard on Dewey's face, tried not to let his eyes slip to the ridiculous and repulsive tattoo which adorned Dewey's neck. Apparently, Mrs del Toro, _call me Honey, _had also decided that part of Dewey's life needed to be erased, or at least covered up, until it could be permanently erased by laser some time in the future. It was a little difficult to take anything seriously that said _eil Hi_ bracketed by some large purple hickeys.

Technically Dewey and the Mrs have committed no crime except that of questionable taste on Mrs del Toro's part. The shit storm that is crashing over everyone's head is courtesy of del Toro alone.

But that won't keep Dewey and his Honey safe, or save Boyd Crowder's life. Nor would it undo the wounds that Raylan has suffered. Art throws a quick look at Raylan, noting the lines of pain and tiredness on his face. He could… should… order his deputy to go and rest, but knowing Raylan the way he does, Art's not one to try. It was Raylan who found Dewey. Even Dewey seemed a little shocked and upset about the state Raylan was in.

Vasquez is, honest to god, confused by Raylan. The deputy is one tough, trigger-happy lunatic as far as Vasquez is concerned. But there is a great deal more to him than that and Vasquez is still trying to work out who Raylan is. Brave, loyal, an exceptional shot, he's all of those things too. Vasquez has heard all the hillbilly whisperer stuff too.

He can read from Raylan's face and body language that the Marshall has pushed himself beyond what is reasonable for a man only recently left his sick bed.

As badly as Raylan wants to crawl home to a warm bed, pop some of those good drugs to kill the ache in his shoulder, and tune the world out, he wants to find Boyd, because this time Boyd is in deep into something that is not his fault and no one deserves to die for something that has nothing to do with them. Even Boyd Crowder.

* * *

Del Toro has stopped beating on Boyd. Boyd is still slumped face down on the floor, his right arm arranged into some very odd angles. He can hear every word as del Toro speaks to someone on the phone, and he knows then that he's going to die, unless Raylan and the Marshalls can get to him before del Toro gets to Dewey, and that will only be a couple of hours.

* * *

The tethered goat scenario is playing out quietly, Raylan can't help but think of the irony of the situation. This time he's not the goat, Dewey is, but Raylan recalls the last time, reflexively he rubs his nose. Remembering Dewey's encounter with the steering wheel, courtesy of Raylan's hand around the back of his neck.

Raylan knows that situation is never going to be reversed, for one thing he would not be dumb enough to trail someone and give away his position at every turn and for another, it will be cold day in hell when Dewey Crowe finally manages to sneak up on Raylan Givens.

Raylan's well aware that he's a bit punchy, but he wants so badly to see this through. He went from blame to belief for Boyd Crowder and he just wants to see him back in one piece. Then he'll crawl away to bed to lick his wounds.

* * *

Del Toro shoves Boyd roughly into the car. It hurts, but in the grand scheme of things, the pain scarcely raises a whimper. Boyd's whole body is one big hurt. He doesn't care where they're going, he doesn't expect to survive the experience.

Del Toro is a careless and aggressive driver, and Boyd wishes for oblivion. He isn't that lucky.

* * *

They can hear the commotion long before they can see del Toro. Dewey and his Honey have fled to the tiny bathroom. Art is stationed by the door, gun drawn, Rachel on the other side. Raylan knows that Tim is on the roof, and that Raylan isn't needed. It's only his stubbornness that has brought him to the motel at all.

Raylan chances a glance out of the window.

_Oh god_.

Boyd is dangling from del Toro's hand like a side of beef. He's thirty feet away. Close enough for Raylan to see every terrible detail. Boyd's right arm is dangling at a weird angle, from the way he's bending to the side a little Raylan knows that he's got bust ribs, through his torn shirt Raylan can see a myriad of dark-colored marks, bruises.

"HONEY." Del Toro bellows. He has a gun in his hand. His fingers look too big for it, the gun almost disappearing into his huge meaty fist. Boyd is being held so hard against him that Raylan knows that Tim doesn't have a shot.

They're moving closer, Raylan can see the look on Boyd's face clearly. Boyd thinks it's all over, he can't think straight any more, he just wants the pain to stop.

He's given up. Del Toro can kill him any time.

Raylan knows that he can't let that happen. He gets to his feet, puts his hat on his head, makes sure his badge is clearly visible, and unsnaps the strap on his holster.

Art made him wait in the other room, so Raylan uses the other door, walks right past Art who's busy telling del Toro that he's surrounded and to put his weapon down.

Raylan steps forward. Putting himself in the firing line. Just so Boyd can see him. See that he's battered and bloodied but unbowed.

Alive. So there is hope.


	7. Stand Off

Art's jaw actually drops when he sees Raylan walk past the door. _Of all the dumbass…_ The worst is that Art knows why Raylan has done this, he's fifteen feet closer than Raylan was, he can see Boyd's condition, see the hopeless, lost look in Boyd's eyes, the look of a man who knows he's going to die and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it.

Tim Gutterson sees Raylan, sees Boyd and the gorilla holding Boyd by his collar. He peers through his scope again. _No shot. Dammit._ He needs a shot, because Raylan's running on empty and it looks like Boyd is dying. No one deserves to go like that, beaten and tormented.

"Raylan."

Raylan scarcely recognizes his own name from Boyd's lips, so hoarse is his voice, there seems to be something wrong with his jaw too.

Raylan cannot really afford to take his eyes off del Toro, but he chances a glance at his exhausted friend, this goes back to the mine, to the day that Boyd Crowder dragged the terrified Raylan out into the light.

It could be seconds or hours that Boyd and Raylan look at each other. Raylan doesn't know, or care, he just needs to give Boyd enough to keep fighting.

Up on his vantage point, Tim squints down his sniper scope and fights a little war with himself. Every ounce of his sniper training and years of carefully honed instinct says no shot. Every ounce of emotion and who he is, and the situation he's a sad and angry spectator at, tells him that there has to be a shot.

All he has to do is part Raylan and Boyd and put a bullet through Gorilla in such a way that he has no chance to squeeze off a shot which will kill either Raylan or Boyd.

_Shit. NO SHOT._

_This sucks._

Raylan straightens. He's on borrowed time now and he knows it. His senses are swimming, the pills have worn off and the edge is coming back hard. His left side is fighting him with a vengeance.

"HONEY." Roars the gorilla.

"You have to know by now that Honey isn't coming out." Says Raylan in a conversational sort of way.

He rests his hand on his holstered gun, and instinct kicks in as his fingertips caress the familiar leather and steel. "This can go down one of two ways. And I'm giving you some options here." He pauses, he's hurting but he's hitting his stride, "Option number one is simple. You let me have Boyd here, and he gets medical treatment, you put your weapon down and surrender and this all goes off peaceful."

Gorilla del Toro smiles evilly. "Or I could blow his brains out."

"Well you could. You have your weapon out, mine's in the holster. A lot can go wrong with the draw. You might have me at the tactical disadvantage." Raylan can feel that Boyd is fading, the light is a little less bright in his crazy intense dark eyes, "but I could still beat you. Or my colleague Tim," Raylan inclines his head a little, "He's a Ranger Sniper, maybe you get me or Boyd, but you don't get both of us, and he's just waiting for you to make that kinda fatal error of judgement."

Tim squirms, he knows what Raylan is saying, or trying to say… that taking the shot would be a mistake. But Tim knows his job, and if he can prevent loss of life for instance, Raylan's, Boyd might just be the sacrifice.

Boyd's head turns, as Gorilla tightens his grip, he knows, his eyes give Tim permission to end it, and as he turns his head, suddenly Tim has the shot that means that everybody walks away still breathing. In that split second he takes it. Watches Gorilla fall away, his hand with the gun in it going limp as Boyd slumps forward and Raylan staggers with the additional weight as he catches Boyd. They slither to the ground in a painful and ungainly heap, and Tim breathes again, closing his eyes, breathing through his nose as the adrenaline courses through his veins.

He can hear Art and Rachel doing their jobs and knows that he's supposed to be down there, but he needs a moment. A moment to feel the life that was in his hands, and life who could take that away.

He moves then and rejoins his group. Raylan and Boyd are still on the ground. Boyd is in poor shape, struggling to breathe, Raylan's doing what he can to hold it all together. The paramedics are there, and Tim gently persuades Raylan to turn Boyd over to them, then Rachel and Tim carefully coax Raylan to get to his feet, then they support him as he walks very slowly over to the ambulance.

Art looks across, and nods at the three of them. He tries to find it in his heart to be annoyed at Raylan, but one look at the exhaustion and pain on Raylan's face and he knows he isn't going to. That Tim and Rachel are going to take Raylan on an easy ride back to the hospital, just reveling in being together and being alive, because when it comes down to it they are a team, however cock-eyed and crazy and they need that time to themselves.


	8. Painful Consequences

Rachel drives, and Tim sits in the back with Raylan. Only it's not so much sitting, as trying to find a way for Raylan to be comfortable. His pain medication has long since worn off, facing off del Toro took a lot out of him, and it wasn't as though Raylan had a lot left to give.

Rachel tries her best to give Raylan as smooth a ride as possible. He's in pain, and he can't hold that back anymore. At first he's upright, supported by Tim, but things start to go south very rapidly. The next time Rachel looks back, Tim has slumped down, and Raylan is lying in his lap, cradled in his arms. Tim's knees are keeping him from falling off the seat and Tim is trying to soothe him. It all sounds a little desperate.

Tim looks up, "how long" he whispers.

Rachel looks at the road, at the little traffic on it. "Ten minutes?" She says, perhaps optimistically. "How's he doing?"

At Tim's shake of his head, Rachel feels a fear clench in her stomach, but Tim's talking to Raylan, "ten minutes Ray-Ray and then we get you the good drugs and a nice rest in a bed."

Rachel takes her eyes off the road for a second, Raylan's good hand reaches out, and his fingers entwine with Tim's. Raylan is not the demonstrative type, but the way he's clinging to Tim's hand speaks volumes.

Rachel speeds up a little, getting Raylan checked out sooner rather than later becomes a great deal more important.

The arrival at the hospital is a blur, Raylan's deteriorating condition isn't improved when the medical team tries to pry his grip from Tim's hand. Raylan panics. He might be sick and injured but he's strong, fit and athletic and he tries to fight them.

Rachel takes charge before anything else can go sideways. "Tim should stay with him," she says to the doctor, "It will be easier that way, Raylan's just had an emotionally exhausting experience. I'll fill out paperwork." She knows that Tim doesn't want to leave Raylan's side anyway, and since one of the sources of Raylan's panic is what might have happened to Boyd, Rachel figures that she can do some checking on that front. Maybe even get them a room together.

It's weird. Rachel doesn't understand the loyalty, and even the love, that exists between Raylan Givens and Boyd Crowder. But it's useless denying it. They might try to kill each other on a regular basis, they might be on absolute opposite sides of the fence, but there is something that runs deep in their souls. She doesn't give a damn about Boyd Crowder, but Raylan does, and knowing how Raylan feels inside, and how he would be lost without the man, Rachel checks up.

Boyd is a mess. Broken arm, broken ribs, cuts and contusions all over his body. They have him on a fairly heavy cocktail of good drugs but he's lucid enough to greet her. "Hey, Raylan's friend."

The man is out of it, and in a state so Rachel cuts him some slack on the over-familiarity, especially when the next words out of his mouth are "How's Raylan?" She does not miss the genuine anxiety in the tone, or the look in his eyes, or the shift that might even have been an attempt to get to his feet to go and look for Raylan.

"He'll be here in a little while, and then you can see for yourself." She soothes him, it feels a little awkward, but she lays her hand over his, avoiding the drip attached and gently gives his hand a squeeze. He moves again, his jaw tightens up, and then he screws his eyes shut and pants with the pain.

Rachel changes hands, keeps a grip on his undamaged hand with her left and tentatively rests her right hand on Boyd's forehead. "ssshhhh" she soothes, "moving will only make things worse, and they're gonna bring Raylan in here. So you can see him, and he can see you." She's talking the way she would to a child, but Boyd's so loopy on the drugs that it doesn't matter, and it seems to have an effect. He relaxes under her hands.

"He saved me." She can see tears in his eyes then, and even if it is the drugs talking rather than Boyd's true self, she knows that the bullshit has been stripped away and this is his heart's response to what Raylan did for him.

The door opens behind her, and they bring Raylan in. Tim's walking beside the gurney, Raylan's anxiety has not eased, Tim gives Rachel a look. "I'm staying," he whispers.

Rachel rolls her eyes a little. As if she hadn't already figured that out. She's staying too. She's already made that call, arranged for her son's needs, now she turns her attentions to her and Tim's needs. The hospital has cots and blankets for overnighters, but they need food, Rachel sets about her task while the medical staff settle Raylan in bed.

Her preparations for their needs complete, Rachel wanders back to the front desk. "Deputy Givens' clothes?" The motherly older woman on the desk smiles and hands over a pile of neatly folded clothes, Raylan's beloved hat resting on top. Rachel smiles "he loves his hat," she says. Taking Raylan's boots from the lady.

Halfway back to the room, the hat is practically daring her to put it on. Rachel pauses for a second, and glares at it a little. Just what is it about the damn hat. "I tried you before, remember." Oh great, now she's talking to the damn hat. She can almost feel it smirking. She plops it on her head before this can get any damn weirder.

She reaches the room, the medical staff have gone, Boyd and Raylan both seem to be asleep, and Tim has set up the cots with blankets, acquired a small table from somewhere so that they have something to put the food on, and eat at, using the two cheap 'n' nasty plastic chairs that the hospital room usually affords.

Tim's toed out of his boots, ditched his tie and his dress shirt, loosened his waistband and removed his belt and stretched out on the cot which he's butted up against Raylan's bed. Raylan is still clinging to his hand, well, as clinging as he could manage.

Raylan has exhausted himself, and the stress on his system has been far too much. He's running a fever, and there is a mild infection in the shoulder wound. He needs rest and peace, but when they tried to separate him from Tim for the second time he panicked again and his fever went up a little.

Rachel has her own private thoughts about why Raylan doesn't want to be separated from Tim, but she keeps that to herself. Especially when she can see it's a mutual thing.

Tim looks up and grins at her. The hat. She had almost forgotten she had it on her head, she moves to take it off, but Tim shakes his head, and fumbles in his pocket for his phone. Rachel poses as Tim snaps off a picture. They grin in a conspiratorial sort of way.

It's the hat.

A big bag of fried chicken with all the trimmings arrives. Rachel got it because she knows that chicken is Raylan's favourite and probably Tim's too. Guessing that Boyd has the same fried chicken addiction and it wouldn't be fair to leave him out of it, she orders the biggest bag they do.

A few minutes later, food arrives for Raylan and Boyd. From the look on Raylan's face as he wakes up, if he had access to his Glock he would have shot it.

Rachel's glad to see that Raylan's eyes are a little clearer, and that when Tim lets go of his hand, Raylan doesn't panic. Which probably had more to do with the promise of chicken rather than any real easing of the stresses that brought Raylan low for a second time in five days. Nothing wrong with Raylan's sense of smell.

Or Boyd's sense of smell for that matter. Soon they're all tucking into the chicken.

Art arrives with David Vasquez in tow just after they've reached satiation point. Tim's amused to realize that Raylan's fallen asleep mid-chicken, his third, unfinished piece almost slipping from his fingers. Tim gently removes it from Raylan's hand, and gently wipes Raylan's fingers with one of the supplied wipes. If Art and Vasquez notice anything odd about that, they don't show it.

"He can't talk tonight." Tim says firmly, casting a look at Art that Rachel interprets instantly. This is Protector Tim, looking out for his partner.

Vasquez shakes his head, "no talking necessary. We know what happened, and whilst this," he waves his hand at the two beds, "would be a major conflict under other circumstances, in this case it's fine." He looks down at sleeping Raylan. "I've read Art's report, given his condition, that was an insanely brave thing to do." He shakes his head again, this time in wonder at the contradiction and conundrum that is Raylan Givens.

Raylan is surely crazy, but he's never boring, and somehow Vasquez himself has fallen a little under the spell of the charm, and the hat and the craziness that is the most complicated and troublesome deputy he's ever met. He has this very real fear that one day he's going to have to clip Raylan's wings, and that might destroy Raylan as a marshal. Vasquez does not want that to happen, because in amongst all the craziness and the late night legal headaches, Raylan is a fine marshal, one of the very best.

He nods at Art, and leaves, giving Art some time with his three deputies.

Tim and Rachel can read the anxiety in Art's eyes. "I…" Art begins, and stops, shakes his head in frustration. Tim's sitting on the cot, cross-legged, holding Raylan's hand again. Art stares at the tubes that go from the drip in Raylan's arm to the two bags hanging from the stand, and thinks about how close they came to losing Raylan. The thought makes him feel a little sick.

He turns to go. Too full to say anything meaningful.


	9. In Sickness

Tim isn't sure what woke him, perhaps just the feel of something being wrong. He glances across at Raylan, the room is gloomy, it's the early hours of the morning. Something just ain't right.

Tim puts his hand on Raylan's, it's hot and dry to the touch, "Raylan?" he whispers, no answer and Tim reaches for the alarm bell. Every second may count because Raylan is getting sicker.

The crash team arrive at the gallop, and Tim moves aside to let them work, as Rachel wakes up.

It's worse this time. Raylan hardly seems to recognize them, although he reaches for Tim's hand. They promise to keep out of the medics' way, but they need to stay close.

It really isn't looking good. Raylan's temperature has risen and there's no sign of his fever breaking. He's weakened and breathing heavily, he doesn't even seem to recognize Tim now, but Tim still holds his hand, stroking his fingers, feeling the familiar weight of Raylan's horseshoe ring, as much part of who Raylan is as his hat and boots.

Rachel slips out of the room. She really needs to call Art. It's bad, it might get worse, but she still fights that battle with herself. What she is really saying, if she calls Art, is that they need to let go, and Rachel doesn't want that on her conscience. Saying it is like wishing it on him. She can't think past that to a sadder and darker place, because she knows it would be sadder and darker without Raylan.

She stands in the doorway, the lights are fairly dim, but they don't need to be brightly shining for the medical people to do their work. She realises that Boyd is awake, and he's watching. Watching them fight for Raylan's life. She sees the pain on his face, the tears that run slowly down his cheeks, knows that he's a sneaky, manipulative, murderous, treacherous son of a bitch. But the tears this night are for something that might have been or maybe never could.

Boyd Crowder, criminal, crying for Raylan Givens, marshal, because whatever separates them holds them together too, that and a mine, and two teenage boys.

She makes the call, because to deny Raylan the comfort of his oldest friend from outside of his Harlan childhood would be too cruel. She can hear the dread in Art's voice, she gives him the bald facts, Raylan is sick, and Art should come. More than that she cannot say.

It's a long night. Art arrives, they are still working on Raylan, upping his doses of anti-biotics and painkillers, using icepacks to bring his body temperature down, whatever he has succumbed to is knocking him out fast.

But Raylan Givens is the most stubborn man in Art Mullen's known universe. And the most bull-headed. He fights, as Art knew he would. At first light Tim is still holding Raylan's hand, he's exhausted, he's held on all night through Raylan's crisis but the joy on his face when Raylan's hand finally squeezes his hand in response is a sight to behold.

Art smiles then. Even though he knows that Raylan is not out of the woods, that he won't be leaving hospital for some time, he's closer to being on the mend than he was even a couple of hours ago.

Tim's back on the cot, he can hardly keep his eyes open, and Raylan is still holding his hand, which is presumably a manifestation of Raylan's bone-deep stubbornness. And presumably Raylan's link to the human world. Art's not superstitious, but he is a man of faith, if that's what it takes to drag Raylan back to the real world, it's fine by him.

He's pretty certain that Raylan and Tim have got some serious talking to do some time soon, but until then the physical link will have to do. Art just hopes that this means that he gets to keep both of them, rather than the less than satisfactory alternative.

Raylan sleeps most of the day, and Tim keeps watch, in truth he sleeps nearly as much as Raylan, worn out by the night's events and the tensions that are still hanging around him from the shooting. He's never felt quite like this before. He knows he did his job, and that's normally enough but it's a shock to find that his emotions are more engaged on this one.

Boyd watches them both. In some strange way it does his heart good to see the honest affection between the two men. Whatever it might mean in terms of relationships, Boyd is grateful that Raylan has someone in his life who won't disappoint him, who will be there for him and take his back when he needs it. Boyd no longer has that right. He's too far down another road, and he and Raylan might be enemies now, even though he's learned to regret that. But it's too late to change that course.

Ava walks in. It should be awkward Raylan and Boyd in the same hospital room, but she's more concerned with half the Marshals' office being present. She came by the night before, but the room was full of Marshals and she left. It's afternoon, the lights are off, and they've opened all the doors and the windows that do, trying to cool the place down a little from the summer sun. She walks up to Boyd's bed, and his good hand reaches out to her, despite the drips attached to it, and the monitoring equipment she takes his hand in hers. Focused on Boyd, and she feels something like love welling up in her.

Love for a Crowder.

She reaches out a foot, and hooks it around the visitor's chair. Sits down. All without letting go of Boyd's hand. The wonder she feels at this new facet to their relationship. The one where she really loves him. She wonders how that happened.

Boyd doesn't want to talk, he just wants to lie there and revel in Ava's presence. He can feel her heart reaching out to his, and he wants to hold that jealously to himself for now.

He glances across at Raylan, and Raylan's protective shadow. The injured marshal is breathing a little easier now, but he still looks pale and very tired. Gutterson is dozing, he had a stressful night himself, but Boyd has no doubt he would leap into action to protect Raylan if needed.

Ava glances across to Raylan and his friend. It seems strange to see Raylan laid up in here. She knows she will never forget what he did to save Boyd. Can't keep a secret in Harlan. She's tempted to go over and tell him that, but he looks so tired and wiped out that she doesn't. Besides, she's not leaving Boyd.

Raylan can sense her, and Boyd, but he's too tired to do anything. Tim's there and he can deal with everything else in the morning. He opens his eyes to check on his friend, it was confused last night, but Raylan has a very strong feeling that one person kept him grounded through his pain and delirium, and he has an even stronger suspicion who it was. That's a new thought, one that Raylan is curious to find he is receptive to.


	10. Being There

It's evening again, already dark outside. Rachel's been home once, and back to work, filed her report, typed up Tim's which he scribbled hastily before she left, while Raylan's vitals were being checked, and his medication changed. She's brought the statement in a file for him to sign, and a change of clothes for Tim too.

It's very quiet, Boyd's asleep, Ava curled up in a chair next to his bed. The cot that Tim was sleeping on is still there, butted up to Raylan's bed, and still occupied and Rachel can't help the smile that comes to her face.

They're both asleep, facing each other, fingers touching. There's no way she can resist, she slips her phone out of her pocket and snaps a quick picture. It says something for their complete exhaustion that the flash doesn't wake them.

Raylan is not really looking any better, the grayish tinge to his skin and the darkish bruise-like patches beneath his eyes, coupled with the pinched frown do not suggest that his rest is any easier than it was a few hours ago.

She can feel her own anxiety levels rise, Rachel can read charts, and Raylan's chart has definite signs that he isn't completely out of the woods yet. According to the readings his temperature has spiked twice since she left at eight am, and they've already tried weaning him off the medication once today without success.

She moves up a little closer to the bed. At some point someone has changed Raylan's bandages, and done something different to the position of his arm and wounded shoulder. The arm's pulled back, pinning the shoulder into an almost backward arch, it's clearly a lot more uncomfortable than previously, and Rachel wonders if that is the root cause of Raylan's exhausted demeanor.

She can't help herself, she reaches out and gently strokes his cheek avoiding the neat line of stitches. His eyes open slowly.

"Hey." She says softly, and smiles at him.

Something resembling Raylan's trademark grin lights up for a second or two, ignoring the stitches which tug at his cheek.

He clears his throat a little, and tries to moisten his lips with his tongue. Rachel's already there, holding the beaker and straw so that he can get some sips of water for his dry throat.

"Rachel… good to see you." It's sleepy sounding and a bit slurred, but his eyes are a little brighter, and she lets out the breath that she wasn't even conscious of holding. He's going to get better, it's going to take time and he's going to be stuck in hospital for a while, and then physiotherapy for even longer.

There's a funny-sounding snort from the other side of Raylan's bed, and Rachel suppresses a grin. Tim shifts a little in his sleep and Raylan's eyes turn to his friend. There's something in his gaze that almost brings tears to her eyes. She's certain that neither of them are aware of it yet, this thing between them and what it means. It's strange, because they are certainly at odds when it comes to the rules, but there's this respect between them, a trust and a reliance. Rachel holds this tenderly in her heart, because it feels good to know it.

By nine pm, Ava's gone, Boyd's fallen asleep again, and another chicken dinner has been delivered. Courtesy of Tim this time. Once again, Raylan's official hospital dinner arrives.

Raylan picks up the spork and pokes the strange square sitting in the middle of the indefinable grayish sludge that might have been gravy, but then again he's not certain. "What is that?" He frowns.

Tim peers at it closely, takes the spork and gives it another couple of pokes, shrugs "dunno."

Raylan gives it a push to one side. "Chicken." He holds out his hand.

"Well, you're obviously feeling better." Art stands by the doorway. His three deputies have been spending a lot of time together just recently, and he knew exactly where Tim and Rachel would be.

He knows that this newfound togetherness is unlikely to halve his Raylan-Disaster quotient, but Art would be happy with just a little of Tim and Rachel rubbing off on Raylan. Because what Raylan's unique ability to find trouble came close to costing them all this time makes Art's heart pound and the ground not feel too stable beneath his feet and he's far too old to cope with this.

He walks into the room slowly, takes the opportunity to have a closer look at Boyd Crowder. Damn. The bits of Boyd that he can see are covered in bruises, the ugly hospital gown covers heavy bandaging and his broken arm is covered in cast running from his knuckles up to his shoulder.

Art hopes that the poor devil is drugged to the gills because that looks really painful. It's a very strange feeling, he's never felt pity for Boyd Crowder before. In fact the emotion closest to his heart where Boyd Crowder is concerned is a hearty dislike. Raylan cannot help himself. They dug coal together when they were nineteen and Boyd saved Raylan's life. That act is burned so deeply into Raylan's soul that he will never get it out.

Tim picks up his washkit, and the change of clothes that Rachel brought with her "I'm going to get a shower." He announces, as Rachel finds a reason to clear the remains of their chicken dinner away and sneaks out leaving Art with Raylan.

Art shifts a little uncomfortably, Raylan should be in a world of trouble, not the least for scaring his boss half to death, but all he can think right then is how glad he is that Raylan's alive, and how this time it was too damn close.

"You've got some leave coming, and it's going to be a restful time for me." He starts, because expressing how much he feels about this whole experience is going to turn him to mush, and he's not going to cry in front of Raylan. Neither of them would know what to do with that.

"I'm fine."

Sometimes Art really doesn't know how Raylan manages to utter such lies and not get struck dead on the spot. His eyes narrow and he's actually about to say something along those lines, when he sees the look on Raylan's face.

Beat all to hell, stitched together, all bandaged up like a mummy and Raylan's actually messing with his head. Art tries not to smile.

"Dammit." He shakes a stern finger at his most troublesome deputy.

Raylan grins, his eyes flutter closed, he's surrounded by friends, and that will do for now.


End file.
